


Open Hand or Closed Fist

by AliLamba



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the way one-night-stands are supposed to go.</p><p>Modern day Bellarke AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. like rum on a fire

 

 

“Is this your apartment?”

It’s amazing his ability to talk with half his mouth attached to my own. I ignore his comment for multiple reasons, not least of all because my primary objective at the moment is to see him shirtless.

“Yeah,” I answer off-handedly, my lips moving to his earlobe. Maybe I should turn the lights off, because he’s still looking around like he’s never seen a foyer before.

“Shit.”

Foyers are unimportant.

I roll my eyes and recapture his lips. He gets the picture, and before long I feel the full brunt of his mouth on mine. I’ve been staring at his lips all night so I know I’ve earned this, and when he rips off my light jacket a thrill turns my belly like that salad spinner my mom keeps trying to get me to use.

It’s even better when he grabs me around my thighs and hoists me against his chest. I fly through the air like a damn gymnast, and like a damn gymnast I wrap my legs around his waist and let him carry me into the next room.

He unzips my dress as we walk through the living room. The zipper splits open against my spine, and everything between my hips warm. He peels the fabric off my shoulders when I gesture wildly to the bedroom.

He drops me to my bed and kisses down my throat. It feels so good, and he doesn’t stop – his lips skip down my sternum like a smooth rock on a lake – and he peels off my dress so he can kiss me some more.

And then he does something so that I’ll have to keep his phone number.

To admit what he did would be unladylike.

My mother keeps telling me to be more tactful.

Yeah…he ate me out.

* * *

 

I wake up the next morning full of regret.

Okay, _full_ is probably an overstatement, but it’s hovering at sixty-percent with this hangover. At least I have clearly made it back to my own apartment, and into my own bed. I’m naked and alone, but…meh, that’s not a first. Summers in New York make pajamas overrated sometimes.

I glance at the clock and try to guess how much sleep I got based on the unwillingness of my eyes to open. Based on the squishiness of my frontal sinus, my guess is…two hours? Three?

I close my eyes out of sheer submission. Life just feels better that way.

Before I can really sort out the rest of the details of my foggy head, I hear sounds coming from my kitchen.

As a single 24-year-old living in Manhattan, there are a few life lessons you figure out early on. One of them is how to hail a cab. Another is never interrupt someone who is peeing in public. First and foremost is how to distinguish the sounds of a benign person in your apartment versus a psycho murderer in your apartment. For one thing - the murderer makes much less noise.

Before I can lunge for my baseball bat, I remember that Wells has been bugging me for a few days about the study session he – I mean we – planned for us. Best friend since age six or not, I should really rethink that idea of giving him my key. The man does not take no for an answer, and surely he is trying to wake me up as gently as possible. Before I’m allowed to shout out that _Yeah, I get it, I’m up_ , my brain conjures a mental image of a dark-haired stranger with lots…and _lots_ …of freckles. Dancing with me…grinning at me over drinks…making some obfuscated excuse to share my cab…then making out with me in said cab, and generously accepting my obfuscated invitation upstairs.

Memories of what happened before those two or three hours of sleep come back to me with my eyes closed. _Mmmm_.

The grin that spreads my lips is not at all my fault.

I consider using this mental image to my advantage for awhile, but Wells does not have infinite patience, and surely he’s starting to get annoyed by my slothfulness already. I can hear his voice in my head as clearly as if he’d shouted through the walls.

_Clarke, you really going to sit in bed all day?_

I pout of my own volition, until it hits me:

The smell of coffee.

Suddenly sitting up is not so hard.

I know that I will need a shower before I am declared decently human, so I twist the sheet around my body in some lazy version of a Greek goddess.

As I’m walking around my bed and following the scent of tap water pushed through a fine filter of ground coffee beans, I spy on the ground what appears to be a man’s shirt. It is not entirely unfamiliar, but it is still curious considering guy-you-met-at-a-bar etiquette to be gone before dawn with all your stuff.

I squint at it, but keep walking, because I am a woman with her priorities in order and someone has clearly forfeited a perfectly good shirt.

Opening the bedroom door turns out to be a bad idea.

The oversized windows face east, as I’m reminded the second the seven o’clock sun blasts my eyeballs. I feel vampiric in my instinct to slink back into the shadows of my bedroom and sleep until nightfall.

“Oh, hey, you’re up.”

The voice is not that of a psycho killer, nor of Wells. I’m still frowning at the idea of the sun when my eyes adjust, and find a stranger standing behind my kitchen island sans one perfectly good shirt.

Suddenly morning is starting to look a whole lot brighter.

I hair-check myself, trying to flatten and comb at the same time as I find what is surely a blond and tangled mess.

Well, technically, this guy is responsible for said mess, so…I shouldn’t be so self-conscious about it. I try for a shy or demure smile, even though I know both traits look terrible on me.

“Morning,” I say, in my best impression of Lauren Bacall. Or…the Cookie Monster. I cough into my toga and avoid eye contact.

Walking through the room, I sneak glances at him, giving myself points for my good taste. His torso is lean and muscular – I can count his abs and there are eight of them – and his skin is naturally an olive tan. The hair that I grabbed at last night is dark, curly, and dusts his ears, and his lips are full and perfect.

And he’s making breakfast.

What has your husband done for you lately?

“Are you…are you making breakfast?”

He looks a little bashful all of a sudden, as if he’s broken the good china.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong I love it. I was convinced for awhile that the eggs were there just for show.”

My new favorite person grins, using a rubber spatula to move something yellow around in the pan. I go automatically to the coffee station in my kitchen (the most used, thank you very much), pour some dark brew into a mug, and assume my post on a barstool as helpless sous-chef.

“Well you lucked out,” he says, eyes on the pan. “My culinary skills extend from scrambled eggs to Prego.”

“Prego? Sounds French.”

He laughs, but I’m not sure whether he thinks I’m hilarious or not. I watch him cook for another few seconds.

“You know this goes far outside the expected protocol for casual hook-ups.”

He pauses his hard work to look me directly in the eye, as if he wants me to hear what he has to say. “Well I had fun last night.”

I may have blushed. It’s been so long since I’ve had a reason to. Maybe it’s because he looked at me that way in bed last night.

“Me too,” I add, because I went to college.

A thought occurs to me (again, college-educated = me), and I furrow my brow.

“This is going to sound terrible, but I do not know your name.”

He checks me casually, as if it doesn’t hurt his feelings, and turns off the burner.

“Bellamy.”

“Bellamy,” I repeat automatically, judgment unfortunately tinting my tone of voice because of morning. “What kind of name is that?”

He tilts an eyebrow at me. “What kind of name is Clarke? Do you have a brother named Lewis or something?”

“Hey,” I defend, curling my hands around my mug and shrinking a little because he clearly remembered _my_ name and is not an awful person. “My parents had grand ideals when they came to this country.”

“Oh? Where are they from?”

I squint into the middle distance. “Arizona.”

Bellamy snorts, but I can see him smile. He shakes that floppy mess of curls and turns his attention back to the stove, where he tilts the pan to dump a mess of scrambled eggs onto a plate. I see him looking for the fork drawer and point instinctually. If there wasn’t a mouthful of coffee making its way down my esophagus I would have made more of a sound than _mmurgh_.

He figures it out anyway, picking the right drawer, taking out two forks, grabbing the salt and pepper on his way back to me.

“ _Bon appetit_ ,” he adds with a flourish. I think that if he were to actually speak French he would probably be a figment of my imagination, so I don’t comment.

We grin at each other and giggle as we both attack the eggs. He’s hungry for reasons unknown. I’m hungry because what happened last night technically counted as exercise (so far as my Nike trainer app is concerned) and because lack of sleep makes me relax any good judgment.

Because he’s hot and I’m wearing a sheet for clothes, breakfast turns into making out, and making out turns into a morning wake-me-up against the counter. When I come undone, I think: yeah, definitely getting his number tattooed on my arm.

When we shower together I think: it is technically illegal to employ sex slaves, right? Because he would look adorable in a little leash and collar.

“Bellamy, Bellamy,” I say, watching him get dressed as I attempt to do the same back in my bedroom with wet hair. He clearly has somewhere to go today and something to do. I put on jeans and a t-shirt thinking that I really want to put on sweats and a t-shirt, but knowing that my ass looks better in the jeans.

He grins rakishly at me. Something about multiple orgasms makes both of us far too smug for our own good.

“Clarke, Clarke,” he parrots. I wonder if he knows I said his name twice because I don’t know his last name.

I pause while watching him put on his shoes. “So…I kind of want to give you my number.”

He stops lacing and looks up at me, and grins. “I was kind of thinking the same thing.”

My grin splits my face. “Really?”

He grins too. “Really.”

I roll my eyes at my own giddiness and walk into the living room to find some paper. This is pathetic, really. Really it is. But I still write my full name and number on a piece of notebook paper and tear it off without thought to what the rest of the page says, and when I turn to give it to him I find him walking out of my bedroom looking fine as hell and moving directly towards me. When he’s close enough to kiss me, he glances down at my offered phone number, reaches around me so we make all kinds of bodily contact, and scribbles his own number onto some piece of paper. I’m too distracted by my adolescent libido to see where he writes, but I know I might frame it whatever it is.

“Until next time Clarke Griffin.”

I’m too dazzled by his eyes staring into mine to realize he’s said my whole name, and when he kisses me with his full lips I really forget to care in the first place. I’m damn close to pushing him back into my bed when I hear a polite knock on my door followed by the sounds of a key getting pushed into my lock.

Mood officially dashed. _Hello, Wells._

“ _Shit,_ ” I mutter under my breath, knowing that in one-point-three seconds my childhood best friend is going to cockblock me with a completely logical rationale.

Bellamy looks into my eyes with what might as well be question marks for eyebrows, and I purse my lips and consider him ruefully. “Until next time,” I say, sounding deflated.

“Clarke you better be awake!” Wells calls out in greeting, pushing the door open and wiping his shoes on the welcome mat outside my door. I see that he’s brought coffee and donuts: the man knows me well.

I’m too distracted by this to remember the strange man in my living room with his hands under my shirt, until I see Wells notice both me and him in the same moment. He pauses on the doorstep as if catching mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Bellamy clears his throat, and I turn back towards him. The soft invitation of his face is gone, and instead I see Bellamy in a colder light: he looks more serious and reserved than a second ago, and for a second I doubt whether he’s actually going to call me.

“This is uh, this is my best friend. He came over so we could study.” I’m decently embarrassed to be comforting my fling before my surrogate brother. Bellamy isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Wells. For the first time in awhile I realize that Wells technically looks intimating to people. He’s tall and muscular and has dark eyes, and because of his short neck it always looks like his shoulders are hunched. If only anyone saw this man with a baby, then my goodness, nevermind.

“I’ll call you,” Bellamy promises me. His hand moves to my elbow after our make-out session of seven seconds ago, and he squeezes it in good-bye.

I watch as he walks to the door, and as Wells barely gets out of the way, so they have to pass by each other really closely for Bellamy to leave and Wells to stay. I roll my eyes at male machismo, and decide to change into my sweats.

“I hope you brought chocolate sprinkles,” I warn Wells, to bring him back to the present. He’s still staring at the door Bellamy closed behind him.

He turns back to face me trying to recover his smile. “I always remember the chocolate sprinkles.”

There is a reason we’ve been best friends since we were six.

* * *

 

Two hours later my eyes feel…soggy.

“One hundred and seventy-eight days…” Wells taunts, seeing me unfocused.

“Oh Wells,” I whine. “That’s later. Maybe we’ll be dead by then.”

He gives me a stern look. It’s either because he’s never seen _30 Rock_ or because he doesn’t like it when I joke about death. Because we’re friends I know it’s both.

I collapse into my seat and slump my head on the table.

“Do you think if I lay here forever I’ll learn any of this stuff through osmosis?”

“You’re studying to be a doctor and you’re actually asking me this?”

I pout. “No.” It’s a petulant response because of morning.

“Wells will you please take the Step I for me. Please??”

“Oh because I look just like your driver’s license.”

I groan because of futility. I think we’re nearly opposites in every way: gender, height, squishiness, skin/hair/eye color, sense of humor…everything.

Okay, so sometimes Wells does laugh, but mostly he studies. It’s probably the reason he got into every med school he applied to. Why he chose to go to the one who accepted me is something I might never understand. Mostly to avoid thinking or talking about it I’ll cite the time we were found with our fifth grade teacher’s laptop and I took the fall.

I only realize I’ve started to doze when Wells clears his throat.

“Late night last night?”

My heart skips a beat because of stress. I pick up my head up and look at Wells. He’s avoiding eye contact, keeping his gaze on the open book on his lap.

“You could say that,” I explained, not at all apologetic for my actions. “Raven wanted to go out.”

Wells raises his eyebrows as if to say _Ah_ , looking completely like someone’s father. I roll my eyes at him and try to make sense of my notes. We’ve been studying the heart and lungs all semester, and I’m starting to get sick of it. Not to mention people have been freaking out about the Step I exam since last year; the first part of our board certifications is nothing to be glib about, but the constant stress does tend to drag on.

“Well he seemed…nice.”

I roll my eyes at Wells’ bait, which I will not take because of priorities. I have no brothers, and my parents have a bad habit of being weirdly supportive. Wells is the only one who’s ever held me to a higher standard than I hold myself, and in all honesty…I’m a better person for him.

But this I will not tell him now, as I squint at the scattered notes in front of me.

“Pulmonary embolism, go.”

Wells doesn’t even look up from what he’s reading.

“Paroxysmal chest pain under the breastbone, or on one side, or with deep inspiration; dizziness, tachypnea, anxiety, hypotension, SOB, diaphoresis. Chest x-ray or CTA, maybe a V/Q scan if you can get it. Confirm lung function with an ABG. Treat with anticoags or thrombolytics.”

He looks up at me now, one eyebrow raised as if to say _Something harder, please_. I’m a little preoccupied by the fact that I totally _suck_ and couldn’t have answered half that question if I’d tried.

I sigh, turn the page, and try to get to work.

 _Bellamy Blake_ looks up at me, followed by seven digits I’m not sure Wells could make sense of considering he hasn’t had a hook-up probably since I’ve known him.

 _Bellamy Blake,_ I repeat in my head, grinning. I know I’m going to call him again one of these days, maybe once I can finally recite the symptoms, diagnostics, and preferred treatment for a pulmonary embolism. I conjure an image of Bellamy Blake pretending to be my patient, looking into my eyes while he pretends to cough, totally shirtless.

A thrill curls in my belly, and I get a sudden hankering for salad.


	2. it looks ugly, but it's clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAH SO IT JUST KEPT GOING

 

 

 

 

There are some shocks worth repeating in this world.

Surprise birthday parties. Christmas presents. Not having a cavity every damn time you go to the dentist.

Waking up on a park bench in the mid-morning sun with a bladder full of last night’s urine is not one of them.

And I realize: I am going to pee my pants.

* * *

 

“Raven where are you. No, what are you doing. No, what are you doing tonight.”

Her dry voice sounds even dryer coming through the satellite signal connecting our cell phones. “What ever happened to – Hello? How are you? How was your day?”

I roll my eyes at her, fighting internally to channel my rage appropriately. I’d almost exploded at Wells about ten minutes ago, because he made the mistake of being proud of himself and his achievements while we looked at the posted scores from our latest med school exam, the one we’d been studying for for two weeks straight, and the one I’d blown off my entire life to work towards. I hadn’t let him see my face – my appalled, grief-stricken, horrified face – as I found my own score.

“Raven, this is not a drill. I need to go out. Tonight. Now. I need to – to _explode_ , okay.”

“Whoa somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this afternoon.”

I cradle my forehead in the web of my thumb and forefinger, pinching the skin at my temples. “I need to get freaking _wasted_ , and I need to start now.”

There’s the briefest of pauses where I can hear her brain working. “Hey isn’t it results day for that test you were whining about? The reason you blew me off four consecutive evenings last week?”

“Raven!” I warn, not wanting to talk about it – not wanting to give _it_ a name.

“Sheesh, yeah, okay I get it I get it.” There’s a reason I love her, and it isn’t because she’s such a good cuddler. “Yeah, it just so happens I have a few things lined up tonight.”

“Good I’m coming over. I’m coming over _now_.”

Her eye roll is practically transmitted through space and time. “Alright, see you in a few.”

I bounce my left heel as I wait for the subway train. Tonight will not be a marathon, and there will be no need for ‘sensible’ shoes or a ‘comfortable’ bra. Tonight is going to be all about feeling wanted, liberated, and fucking fantastic. I am going to forget all about failing a test, failing in my career, failing in general. I am going to borrow one of Raven’s tightest, slinkiest dresses, I am going to drink my dinner, and I am going to dance like my life depends on it. I want to be part of the crowd, oblivious to everything except feeling good.

 _Hey_ , I think, smirking as my hair flies across my face ahead of the coming train, _it worked out great the last time._ For a split-second I consider calling that guy… that hot guy _Bellamy_ , but I know tonight’s not the night. I’d ignored the few text messages he’d sent, and I didn’t quite feel like apologizing for anything just now.

* * *

 

My life is full of regret.

 _Oh shit, oh no, oh crap, oh man_. I clench my thighs together and immediately check my surroundings. Tons of blank buildings but none of them look like they have a toilet they'd let me use. Raven’s apartment is…somewhere. The closest metro station is…somewhere. There's no one around, which is a bad thing, until I realize it might be a good thing, I think, I hope, and I eye the low hanging wall behind the bench. On the other side is a bunch of shrubbery, part of some park I've never seen in daylight.

It's not perfect, it's not right, and I am totally going to pee there.

I hop over the wall with my purse in hand, immediately squatting, pulling my undies down to my knees and making sure my jacket and skirt are clear.

This. Feeling. Is. Better. Than. Sex.

Sure, I hate Raven and will hold my grudge forever (I really should reconsider my friends – “ _You go for a run with me or you go home. This ain’t no hotel_ ” – I mean who says that to a friend in pain – regardless of whether they’d made you sing _Kumbayah_ at the top of your lungs all the way home and had drooled pretty aggressively all over your favorite couch cushion).

Staring blearily into the middle distance as my body relaxes under the release of pressure, I'm not immediately aware that a car has pulled up to the curb in front of me.

As it comes into focus, I realize that it is not just a car. The color of it, for one thing: black doors, white hood, some sort of design emblazoned on the side panel.

The other thing I notice is the adornment of mounted blocks on its roof, which I realize quickly are instead a series of lights.

The moment I realize that it is a cop car is the moment that the door opens, and a man in uniform steps out.

But, you see, this is not the worst part.

Why would it be?

I’m a lucky girl, afterall. I found a quarter on the curb once. A homeless person stole it from me three seconds later, but I still found it.

It would probably be enough for most people to have recently failed a test, to have been kicked out of a friend’s apartment in their moment of weakness, to fail to get a cab, to accidentally fall asleep on a bench reeking of urine only to abruptly find out why, and to resort to peeing between a low hanging wall and a shrub. It might even be enough to be then arrested for public urination by a well-meaning officer of the law.

But the worst part, I think, because I can't stop peeing, is that I know this man who has stepped out to stretch, and has instead found me, can hear the sound of me peeing, and is staring with wide eyes into mine as if he also cannot believe how lucky his life is.

 _Oh my God,_ it’s Officer Bellamy Blake.

That, I think, would sound smooth and sophisticated coming out of my mouth.

Dare I say even suave.

I report with great pleasure that what I say instead is:

“Don't you _know_ not to interrupt someone who is _peeing_ in  _public?_ ”

* * *

 

There's a lively few moments where we both adjust to these new roles. Him as a polished, freakishly handsome cop, and me as human garbage.

And really he does the honest thing.

He starts to grin. And the grin, the longer he looks at me and the longer I seem to be squatting there peeing, turns to laughter. And then it turns into the sort of laughter that makes him throw his head back, that makes him clutch at his sides, and makes his partner step out of the driver’s seat to figure out what all the commotion is about.

“Oh my God,” he's saying, wiping tears from his eyes. At this point I’ve safely shaken my hips, pulled my underwear back up, and am busy sorting out my skirt. “Oh my god,” he says again.

His partner looks more appropriately repulsed, which frankly I'm a little grateful for.

I look side to side before approaching the wall, not sure whether I’m glad no one’s nearby to rescue me or witness my shame. As I put my hands on the wall, I try to square my shoulders and straighten my spine. Homo sapiens I am, very nice to meet you. Officer Blake is still having trouble controlling his mirth. Little bubbles of laughter keep sputtering from his throat.

“Oh Clarke Griffin, I am going to have so much fun writing this ticket.”

I almost trip as I make the small leap over the wall. My heels click-clack on the sidewalk in a way I’m sure they're not supposed to.

“What?” I yell, trying to stand fully erect, arms akimbo as if I’m going to fall flat on my face.

Bellamy is grinning as brightly as the sun. I can't believe I ever let that grin into my apartment. I can't believe I ever let that grin under my dress. He's grinning back at his partner though, and reaching for a thick pad of paper strapped to his utility belt.

Oh my god he's not even joking.

“ _Bellamy_ \--“ I start to say, using the warning tone of voice that works so well on my friends (big lie). Bellamy raises a curious eyebrow at me, and I abruptly realize I’m talking to a cop. Well shit. “Officer Blake,” I amend, though I can’t help feeling frustrated with the whole scenario.

“Look, I get that this,” I gesture to myself, the bench, the wall, and the sharp smell of urine, “is not great. But, I beg you. _I beg you_. Today is a _bad_ day. You might not know that I'm in med school, that I had a really hard test yesterday, and in…” Pause for math. “…164 days I have to take the first part of a series of exams which will hopefully make me a doctor. The thing is, they probably won't certify me as a medical professional if they find on my record a charge for public urination.”

He's really fighting not to laugh again. I can tell because his shit-eating grin keeps twitching. “I was going to go with public indecency. I couldn't even remember the code for public urination.”

My jaw drops. “Indecency! I was _covered_.”

“That's a pretty low wall.”

“Yeah but it's still a wall!”

He starts to laugh again.

“We could get you for indecent exposure in a children's park,” his partner points out, voice annoyed for god knows what reason, and my jaw drops at the same time that I swing my head around.

“What?” I yell again, realizing they're totally right. It is a park. “But – _but_ – “ I stammer. “There's not even anyone there!”

That part is at least true. Even in mid-morning the empty swing set creaks eerily in nonexistent wind.

Bellamy’s partner rolls his eyes.

I turn my gaze to Bellamy, who is still grinning laughingly, and who is still scribbling in his pad.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” I plead. He flicks his eyes up at me.

“Public intoxication,” he explains. “Carries a fine of like twenty bucks.”

“ _Public intoxication?_ ” I parrot. “Public intoxication still has to be submitted to the board of medical doctors, Bellamy!”

“You want me to change it back to urination?”

I blanch. “Well!” I stammer. “No!” I add, because of college.

He looks like he's going to start laughing again.

My shoulders slump, and I groan audibly. “I can't believe I was going to call you.”

His grin catches a little as he raises a curious eyebrow. “You were?”

“Yes!” I harrumph. Not that it matters now. I'm pretty sure catching your hook-up peeing in a public park while still drunk from the night before counts as strikes one, two, and three, and also you're out. And also, you're fired from baseball.

“You're studying to be a doctor, right?”

The hopelessness is creeping under my skin. Failing one stupid test suddenly doesn’t feel like the dooming stroke I thought it’d been. Now I'm seeing what it would look like to work in fast food for the rest of my life, or be a life guard, maybe the world’s most charming warehouse chain-store greeter. I might be able to pay off the student loans I have already in maybe…what, before retirement?

“Yes,” I gripe, wanting to add: but not anymore. Hey, are you guys hiring?

“Well maybe we can work out a deal.”

The air suddenly goes very still. I can hear the squeak of the empty swing in the distance, slowly mocking my humiliation.

“Deal?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, consideringly. “I can rip up this ticket,” he grins, “and trust me when I say I _really_ – I _really_ don't want to – if you can come give our whole squad a check-up.”

 _Excuse me?_ “A check-up?”

“Maybe a monthly check-up.”

My mind is still blank. “You know I'm not technically a doctor, right.”

He grins again, like he wants to laugh – again. “So I've heard.”

The squeaky, dry gears of my brain start to grind together. It sounds an awful lot like officer Bellamy Blake is giving me an out and that doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Regardless of the fact that I argued my plight pretty ferociously, I didn't expect to actually win. I'd started to warm to the idea of one day managing my own Arby’s.

“Starting when?”

“How about now?” I must look flummoxed. “We were on our way back to the station anyway, just stopped for coffee.”

I turn to see where he's pointing, and my expression sours when I realize that there is indeed a nondescript deli just two doors away.

“Well,” I argue, “I'm not exactly dressed in my doctor best.”

He looks me over, grin pinching one of his cheeks as he takes in my tight red dress, smudged make up, and light trench coat.

“I think you'll be okay.”

I raise my eyebrows at him irately. Part of my sentence is now clear. If I'm going to be making this compromise, I'm at least going to be heavily mocked in the process.

Officer Blake has clearly underestimated how much of a glutton for punishment I am. I am in med school, after all.

I raise my hands in submission. “Fine!” I glare at him, and it only makes him grin more widely.

“Fine.”

* * *

 

At first I’m immune to the effects of the cruiser’s back seat as we drive into traffic. I'm not wearing handcuffs and Bellamy has treated me to a cup of strong black coffee, but there are bars on all sides, and I start to notice after a minute. “Uh, how? Far away is your precinct?”

Bellamy smirks audibly, and his partner glares at me through the rear view mirror. The partner is clearly not my biggest fan thus far, and I remind myself to be careful not to piss him off.

“Not too much further, princess,” Officer Side-of-Grumpy-Soup taunts, and my lips twist into a frown.

 _Princess?_ Well, I've been called worse. Bellamy chuckles. I can tell because the back of his head looks amused.

“I don't have my stethoscope or blood pressure cuff or anything,” I suddenly blurt, because it's just occurred to me.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bellamy promises. He turns in his seat before adding: “ _Princess_.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I stick out my tongue instead.

 

 

 


End file.
